


paper heart, pencil marks (i inked you in)

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [21]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am so, so grateful to all the lovely readers who've stuck with me while I dabbled and stalled and my brain turned in on itself. There are only a handful of chapters left, and it never would have gotten this far without y'all! So this one dedicated to everyone who's still with me. Thank you!</p>
<p>*title from John Mayer's "A Face to Call Home"</p>
<p>Formatting is a bitch.</p>
    </blockquote>





	paper heart, pencil marks (i inked you in)

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so grateful to all the lovely readers who've stuck with me while I dabbled and stalled and my brain turned in on itself. There are only a handful of chapters left, and it never would have gotten this far without y'all! So this one dedicated to everyone who's still with me. Thank you!
> 
> *title from John Mayer's "A Face to Call Home"
> 
> Formatting is a bitch.

“Do you want to go to the cotillion ball with me?”

The question came out just as awkwardly as she’d expected, lurching from her mouth with a squeak. Her shoulder muffled the final sounds as she pressed the cotton of her tee against the curve of her lower lip. Brienne could only hope her bashful smile softened the edge of her ineptness. Her stomach swirled, restless and expectant, as she gave up craning her neck to roll onto a hip, risking a bold glance behind her.

Jaime had taken to following her home. Brienne found she really didn’t mind. Navigating the slurs at school was easier—if no less hurtful—when they stood together. And she had almost gotten used to the giddy swoop in her stomach whenever she inadvertently caught his eye.

They’d spent the afternoon playing video games on the scuffed hardwood of her living room floor. Brienne had thought of nothing but the dry run of cotillion she’d be tripping through that evening, and whether or not she’d have to face it alone. It had taken her two weeks to steel her nerves to ask, despite Margaery’s protestations that, as her boyfriend, Jaime was obligated to escort her.

Her duty-bound boyfriend was currently leaning against the legs of the couch, blinking at her over his knees. His Wiimote dangled from loose fingers, connecting sharply with his shin before he recovered his grip.

She chewed her lip, wondering if it was stupid to ask after he’d lost so spectacularly trying to play with his injured arm.

He tossed his good elbow up on his knee, leaning forward to scrutinize her. A few months ago, Brienne wouldn’t have noticed the unwitting smile smothered by his wry expression.

“Cotillion’s in three days, Brienne. Am I your beck and call boy?” He cocked a perfect, blond eyebrow, blurring the last two words into one of his innuendos that never failed to make her blush.

“I’m sure you have a suit,” she grumbled, falling back to her stomach in a transparent attempt to hide her pink cheeks.

Jaime snorted.

Brienne ducked closer to her Wiimote, fidgeting with the cord around her wrist. Her pulse was rushing softly against the plastic, a low stream thrumming over stones at the start of a summer rain.

“Cotillion’s a black tie event.” His grin broke through, enamored by her systematic refusal to consider the impending circus. “Didn’t you have to buy a ball gown?" 

Brienne shoved herself off the floor, scooting backwards on her heels to land beside him against the sofa.

His eyes were alight with amusement. Brienne fought the urge to retreat as her heart memorized the gold flecks in his irises. The color caught out the brightness of his smile, casting his whole face warm and golden.

“Sansa found it.” She distracted herself by adjusting her avatar’s skills. “She took my measurements and my dad’s credit card. I think her mom helped.”

“You haven’t even _seen_ it? Shit, Brienne, it could be glitter-vomit pink.”

“It has to be white,” she reminded him. Mostly because she _had_ considered that and she really wouldn’t put it past the girl. “Mrs. Stark wouldn’t let her,” she added, her backup solace in case fashion-addiction managed to overcome Sansa’s reverence for all things deb. 

Jaime raised a brow, looking dubious, and caught up the Wiimote in his left hand. He clicked through two menu screens, watching Brienne grow antsy and irritated from the corner of his eye. She shot him an exasperated look, and he tossed her a smile that teetered between self-satisfied and smitten.

She clenched her teeth and ripped a jagged hangnail, grounding herself in the sting. That expression was not made to be directed at her so openly.

“Are you coming or not?” she demanded, masking a glare beneath pale lashes. She was well aware that _she_ wouldn’t be going if she had any choice in the matter. 

“I pressed my McQueen a few weeks back.” Jaime shrugged flippantly, but embarrassment bled through the cocky nonchalance. His cast slipped from his leg, exposing his torso beneath the thin barrier of his polo shirt. “I figured, if things got less weird . . .” He trailed off, abruptly engrossed in choosing their terrain.

Brienne moved without thinking, sinking into his side until his cast ground against her hipbone. He shifted automatically, maneuvering his arm to drop onto the cushions behind her. She could feel her heartbeat lurch lethargically against her ribs, slogging through veins thick with contentment. The music flared to life and she slung her remote, absently slashing the first foe as Jaime’s avatar slid into place beside her.

“Rehearsal is tonight,” Brienne offered, not quite casually, as she stabbed at an opponent that looked eerily like his stepsister. “We’re supposed to bring our dates.”

“Really getting down to the wire, there.”

Jaime swung imprecisely with his left hand, butchering the foe at her back. He was better when he didn’t have to fight his cast, but his offense lacked the finesse he usually achieved effortlessly. She could see frustration in the tendons of his forearms as he viciously skewered a samurai.

“If you’ve got plans – “

“Relax, Brienne.” Jaime rolled his eyes, catching her attention with his. He paid no mind to the cries as their avatars expired quickly and painfully. “I’ve done this cotillion thing, remember? I’m not gonna toss you into the arena without an offense.”

Her mind scrabbled along the implication of _Cersei_ , but Brienne pushed ahead with the persistence of practice.

She clicked ‘VS’ reflexively, subtle retaliation for making her squirm. But her lips were curling upward. Warm, pulsing relief coaxed free a heady feeling that she knew would cloud her senses unless she contained it.

“Thanks.” Her head dipped to the crook of his shoulder, sinking into tenderness that felt as alien as it did right. His chin brushed her hair—or maybe his mouth did—and Brienne sighed into the seam of skin and tee.

They sat in silence until the soundtrack of battle blared antagonism from across the room.

“ _Hey_ ,” he grumbled, words burrowing between coarse strands of straw. His lips tripped along her hairline as he shifted to look at the television. “I thought we were in this together.” 

“Turnabout’s fair play,” Brienne reminded him, pushing back into her own space and steadying her Wiimote for the fight.

“I said I’d go, didn’t I?” He sounded affronted, but Brienne knew better. There was a competitive spark catching tinder in his eyes, zipping down his cheekbone and flaring determination in his jaw.

Brienne felt her heart catch with heat, even as some distant memory prodded: _I miss that._

“You were a jerk about it.”

The fingers of his right hand drifted to her shoulder. She savored the way they pressed and clenched, five distinct points of support, tracing the intensity of their duel.

 

* * *

 

Brienne made a beeline toward the Tyrell corner of the ballroom, doing her best to ignore the lavish decorations already dripping from cornices and double story windows.

“About damn time,” Loras greeted, catching her bicep with a friendly elbow.

She frowned, glancing at her watch. She was seven minutes early, despite Jaime’s disinclination to let her escape her seatbelt. Her stomach was still roiling, exhilaration and anxiety inextricably wound somewhere low in her abdomen. She hoped her lips weren’t as swollen as they felt.

Margaery exchanged a look with her brother that somehow chided Brienne and made her feel worthwhile, all at once. 

“He means Jaime, Brie.” She nudged her friend around, and Brienne caught sight of a familiar tousle of blond hair.

Jaime had veered off to talk to his mom, but Brienne gravitated towards her friends before he could drag her along. She was nowhere near ready for a confrontation with Joanna Lannister, no matter how many times Jaime argued that she was on their side. His mom was on no one’s side but his, and Brienne wasn’t prepared to convince her that she was more than the girl who’d smudged the family portrait during deportment lessons.

Especially not with her clothes rumpled from a series of flustered kisses.

Jaime’s back was to her, blocking his mom but for a manicured hand on the cocked, power-suited hip she had obviously instilled in her stepdaughter. Brienne frowned, eyes tracing the tense cut of muscles under the fabric of his suit jacket. There was a good chance that inviting him had dredged up unwelcome implications about Cersei’s debutante debut. She wondered if his mom would mention it.

Margaery interrupted her thoughts, unraveling the expertly tied knots in Brienne’s stomach before she could yank them tighter.

“Loras thought you’d be crossing your fingers at the Lannisters’ gate an hour before cotillion.”

Her brow arched knowingly, but her pretty smile was playful. “I told him it wouldn’t matter. Your boy’s smitten.”

Brienne turned faintly pink. She shifted her attention from Jaime, pretending she hadn’t been thoroughly engrossed. Her mouth opened and wavered, caught between a standard denial and the realization that there was nothing to deny.

“Yeah,” she muttered. She bit her mouth clumsily, muffling the enchantment that nudged her lips and cheeks into a snug embrace. “I guess.”

“You have such a talent for understatement.”

Brienne blinked, smile faltering. Her gaze dropped as she turned, pulling her brows into a furrow. “Tyrion? What are you doing here?”

He gave her a tight smile. Brienne wondered if he held the last month against her.

“Damage control,” he answered cryptically.

Everyone snapped to attention. Brienne’s shoulders stiffened, angling toward Jaime before her brain caught up with her. The Tyrells fell back to either side of her. With a flick of brown eyes, Margaery disengaged a deb from the crowd to complete the formation. Brienne barely had to glimpse red to recognize Mel.

“Good show.” Tyrion crossed his arms, looking genuinely entertained. “How did you manage to train them so quickly?”

“Trial by fire,” Ygritte snapped, marching over to throw her defenses into the ring.

Jon trailed her, looking determined and more than a little uncomfortable. “Loyalty,” he added, hanging back while his not-quite girlfriend flanked Brienne.

“They’re my friends,” Brienne said, trying not to shift beneath the weight of all those eyes.

Tyrion appraised her, watching her attention drift unconsciously to Jaime. He seemed to be arguing with his mom.

“You may want to polish your act,” Tyrion advised. His tone suggested that he was a play ahead and they were two behind. “You’ll need a well oiled machine by Saturday.”

Brienne met his gaze, wincing at the pity buried in black and green confidence.

“What’s Cersei planning?”

“Nothing at the moment. But you may want to talk to my brother.”

He jerked his chin toward the boy in question. Her eyes found Jaime, still wrapped in heated debate with the imposing woman who’d taught him to laugh and fight and disappear in front of a crowd.

“I can’t – “

She quailed under Tyrion’s unimpressed stare. Her intentions snagged on crimson plaster as Jaime jerked his injury close.

Brienne moved across the ballroom, shedding her shields as she went. Doubt oozed from her pores, clinging like sweat to the tiny hairs towering like soldiers across her skin. Through the rumble of the crowd, her target slowly resolved into loaded silence and contained heat. She refused to let her feet falter as she reached the smoldering, golden battlefield; she felt taller and less coordinated than her training should permit.

“Jaime.” She caught his elbow, stifling her uncertainty beneath the familiar motion.

He broke off abruptly, greeting her with a grimace that could have meant anything.

Mrs. Lannister watched her coolly, the green glint at odds with her polished expression. Brienne stood straighter, trying to appear unflinching.

_Is everything okay?_ She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

She stared between them, feeling foolish, grasping for some excuse for interrupting.

“We’re starting in a minute,” she blurted lamely. Like they could start before his mom deemed it time.

“Brienne.” Joanna Lannister was unruffled. She smiled so faintly that Brienne couldn’t tell if she’d meant to. “Perhaps you can offer an opinion.”

Jaime’s feet inched apart, bracing. ‘ _An_ opinion’ the straight line of his mouth seemed to say. ‘Not _your_ opinion _._ ’

Brienne’s fingers dug into the plaster at his elbow until she felt the texture pressing grooves into her skin.

“Okay?” she agreed, wincing as she reverted to remedial cotillion, take two. She averted her eyes, breathing deeply as her eyes traced scuffmarks on the floor, and when she met Mrs. Lannister’s gaze she felt less likely to spin away. “What’s going on?”

“Jaime has been invited to Kingswood University.”

His mouth snapped shut as his mom took control of the announcement. Pride pulled Brienne’s lips toward her ears, but her enthusiasm died when she saw Jaime’s expression.

“For a football scholarship,” he clarified.

“For an interview with the dean,” his mother countered. It sounded like a rehash of the discussion Brienne had just invaded. “It’s a prestigious opportunity,” Mrs. Lannister reminded him. She glanced at Brienne and pressed her lips almost ruefully, as though they were coaxing a willful child into his bath. “But my son has deemed it unworthy of his time.”

Brienne turned to him, mouth twisted in confusion. “But you _want_ to go to Kingswood.”

“So I should let my father buy me a useless scholarship.” Sarcasm and frustration peeked through the careless curve of his cheek. Jaime’s shoulder twitched, a spasm that jumped down his cast and through Brienne’s arm.

She knew she was missing something. Her fingers skidded down the cast to press her thumb against warm, bare knuckles. She blinked at the flushed skin there, trying to discern its cause.

“Jaime is concerned about his prior obligations.” Lovely, strong features assessed Brienne calmly. Some uncompromising creature rippled beneath sea-green eyes.

Brienne risked a quick glance at Jaime, and implication resolved into sense and consequence.

Her fingers fell from his arm, catching and curling on the pocket of his suit. The expensive material obscured the feel of him, inhibited the familiar brush of knuckles against a soft swell of muscle, an unbroken bend of bone. Her eyes danced around the ballroom without her permission, cataloguing the clusters of debutantes and dates she would have to face alone.

“Saturday,” she acknowledged, fisting the fabric in her fingers. “Your interview’s Saturday.”

Mrs. Lannister studied Brienne with something akin to compassion, but she addressed her son firmly. “Your stepfather went to great lengths to procure this meeting. He had no indication that you were otherwise committed.”

He shot his mom a disbelieving look, one even Brienne could read plainly: _Like it would have made a difference._ She wasn’t blind to his roving gaze either, but she couldn’t bring herself to join in the hunt for his stepsister.

Brienne felt suddenly exhausted by the expectation and obligation and flat out manipulation webbed inexorably through the Lannister family name. She wondered for a brief, disloyal minute if Cersei were the rule instead of the exception.

“Dad’s worried about his legacy,” Jaime snapped. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Brienne shuffled her feet, feeling intrusive as mother and son shifted incrementally, squaring off so subtly that no one beyond their uneven battle lines would ever notice.

“I’m worried about _you_.” Jaime’s mother regarded him frankly. “The circumstances aren’t ideal. But disregarding your future for your present is unacceptable.”

Brienne winced, feeling the sting of high school as inescapably as ever.

“Rosby wants me,” Jaime countered, crossing his arms and shifting unconsciously closer to the rough, freckled hand anchored in his suit. He didn’t appear to notice that he’d dropped back a step. “So does Lannisport.”

A faint wrinkle appeared between Mrs. Lannister’s perfect, blonde brows. Jaime’s left hand pressed against his slacks, firmly unclenched.

Information whipped back and forth, crackling through the conduit of matching green eyes. Brienne lacked the language to interpret it, their Rosetta stone buried years before she stumbled through. But she didn’t need their conversation to know that Jaime wanted Kingswood. With or without physio, whether or not he ever perfected a left-hand slapshot, he’d wanted to attend Kingswood University since Brienne was still at East Eros Middle.

Her stomach gurgled. Stomach acid dotted her throat; her lungs burned as she swallowed. “It’s okay,” she broke in, dragging a smile from some undiscovered part of her. She forced her offer into an assertion. “I’ll just go stag.”

Four pairs of sea-green eyes found her. Mrs. Lannister looked more gratified than surprised, but Jaime was blinking at her like he hadn’t quite grasped her meaning.

“Jaime, do you think I care about cotillion?” It was nearly a quip, but Brienne couldn’t bring herself to roll her eyes. Her stomach protested silently.

“We have young men on standby.” Mrs. Lannister took charge of the situation, soothing Jaime by soothing Brienne. “We had several . . . last minute withdrawals a few years ago, and it reflected poorly on the Junior League.”

“Really, I’m fine,” she declined hastily. If she couldn’t have her boyfriend’s support, the last thing she needed was an escort to upset the evening further. Jaime’s mom pursed her lips, and Brienne took a deep breath to admit, “I’m more comfortable on my own. Really.”

“If you insist.”

Jaime was still staring at her, discontent. _Betrayed_.

“I’m not going,” he muttered, not quite low enough to hide the catch in his voice.

“Jaime.” Brienne hesitated, letting her fingers catch and fall from his pocket as she wondered what to say. She evaluated the space around them, cautious of listening ears. Her heart thudded at Mrs. Lannister’s closeness; she inched closer to her boyfriend. “You’re worth more than the NHL.”

He regarded her flatly, but nothing could conceal the flash of pain that skipped like a stone across the gold of his eyes to disappear beneath placid green. “Football,” he mock-enthused, forcing his arms crossed between them.

Her chest squeezed, tiny, pricking rib-ends catching on the soft tissue they were meant to protect.

Being right hurt.

She shot him a hard look, unimpressed with his attempt to dodge. “Forget the NCAA. You’re not your sports.”

“I’m not abandoning you to Cersei,” he insisted. He sounded less sure than before.

Jaime sought his mother.

Brienne stepped back, twisting her toes in the straps of her sandals, waiting as they communicated without words or expression or movement. The seconds seemed endless before Jaime jerked around to face her, shoulders wrought with displeasure.

“I’m not doing this if you’re lying.”

Brienne scowled at him, pushing free of the visible signs of panic and relief.

Jaime rolled his eyes in irritation. “I wouldn’t put it past you,” he griped. “You’ve got ‘martyr’ ingrained in your DNA.”

But he drifted into her, arms dropping as his fingers caught in the fabric across her ribs.

“I can handle Cersei,” she held obstinately, fighting to convince all three of them.

Jaime grunted, tangling his hand more firmly in her blouse. He looked two parts indebted and one part bitter acceptance as he revealed the proviso he’d worked out with his mother.

“Cersei’s coming to Kingswood.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a moment to leave some feedback! Every word is treasured, I assure you!


End file.
